


Serpent's Tooth

by orphan_account



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Incest, Injury, Jason Blossom is Alive, The tags lied to you Archie's gang is hardly in this, this is really sappy be ready to cringe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:15:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jason Blossom escaped his father and the serpents that night in the basement of the Whyte Wyrm. He reunites with his sister Cheryl, but Clifford Blossom, furious at his son's escape, determines to finish him off. And if his daughter must die too, then so be it.





	Serpent's Tooth

**Author's Note:**

> A rather cheesy, cliche fic, but what can I say? I like this sick, twisted ship and I like happy endings.

Jason Blossom stared down his own death. It came in the form of a revolver, held inches from his face by the man he’d grown up calling ‘father’. Clifford Blossom leveled the weapon at his only son’s head, eyes cloudy with rage and panic and perhaps something else. Jason’s heart quickened. Some detached part of him still refused to believe that his own father would kill him like this, shoot him in the basement of a seedy bar like some bad gangster movie. But that was only wishful thinking. Jason had always known it, for he had always known, since he was old enough to speak and listen, that Cliff Blossom valued himself above all other things. Any fondness he extended his children went only as far as they were _his_ , extensions of himself, like any other possession. Jason steeled himself. He knew he wouldn’t hear the gunshot that took his life, for bullets of course traveled much faster than sound. He wondered if he would feel anything at all.

 

He prepared himself, waiting for the oblivion that refused to come. He’d long since stopped fighting against the thick ropes that bound his wrists to the arms of the chair. Though fear hammered away at his chest like a wild beast, he swore not to show so much as a flash of it. If he were going to die, he would not give his son of a bitch father the satisfaction of begging or bargaining or tears. His mind raced. He tried to focus on himself. On his body and his spirit. On anything but the sorrow that he would die before truly becoming a man, that he would die a high school student, and that everything he’d ever hoped for would be snatched away.

 

But then he thought of someone else. He thought of Cheryl, in her room, anxiously awaiting a phone call that would never come. Anxiously awaiting a confirmation that he was okay, that he was safe, that everything had gone according to plan. He imagined her weeping as the weeks and months went by and still he failed to return. He imagined her left all alone to the tender mercies of the creatures they called mother and father.

 

Jason thought of Polly, scared and confused. Left alone to the shoulder all of the responsibility that should have been shared. Would she rid herself of the children?

 

As those thoughts built up in his mind, the fear in his chest began to melt away, to be replaced with a burning, feral rage. He wanted nothing more than to break these bonds and tear his father to bloody pieces with his own two hands. But he could only strain his wrists against the coarse ropes, impotent, and spit at Cliff Blossom’s feet.

 

“What are you waiting for, huh?” Clifford did not respond. His face peeled back into an ugly scowl.

 

“Stupid boy.” He sneered. “I can’t believe I actually expected you to succeed me. Groomed you for it. You don’t have the stomach for it. For any of it. Your grandfather would be ashamed of you.”

 

“Really? I’m not the one who can’t work up the courage to kill someone tied to a chair!”

 

Only in the corner of his mind’s eye, in that moment’s perception that is perceived seconds before the brain can truly process it, did he see Cliff readjusting his aim. Then he heard it. The gunshot. The gunshot that was so loud it sounded like twenty cannon fired in unison, and seemed to shake the walls of the little basement on their foundations. Jason’s head drooped, a strand of ginger hair falling over his deep brown eyes. He heard footsteps and a door closing. Which was odd, because he should have heard none of that. It should have been over in less than a second, as the round tore through his brain well ahead of the gun’s report. But it wasn’t, and it didn’t.

 

Jason felt a sudden, searing pain in his chest, just below his heart. Looking down he saw a great spot of scarlet begin to blossom on his shirt, wet and sticky and awful. His father had taken aim for his chest instead of his head. Whether to prolong his suffering, or out of some shred of conscience that prevented him from putting a bullet into his son’s face, he did not know, though he supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that, against all odds, he was alive. Alive, but injured, and still bound. He did not dare to raise his head, as he heard voices and the shuffling of feet outside the basement door, much closer than the raucous carousing of Southside Serpents on the floor above.

 

He thought of a plan. Not a plan, really, but the closest he could manage in this situation. A desperate gambit. He relaxed his entire body. He slowed his breathing to a crawl, and let his head fall to his chest. The wound in his side was agony, and he threw every ounce of will he had into ignoring it.

 

Finally, the door opened. Jason did not dare look up, but he heard only one pair of feet enter the room.

 

“Ho-ly shit. Old man moneybags actually did it.” The Serpent he knew was called ‘Mustang’ laughed. Mustang bent down to undo the ropes binding Jason’s wrists. Jason held his breath, and prayed he was correct in his assumption a biker thug wouldn’t bother to take a pulse. Mustang pulled a switchblade from his pocket, and slid it between left Jason’s wrist and the ropes. Jason nearly jumped at the cold metal, suppressed the urge to sigh in relief as the ropes loosened and the circulation returned to his wrists. He was sure the angry red marks where the fetters had held him would remain visible for days. Mustang freed one hand, which Jason allowed to droop quite unceremoniously to his side. Very dead. Then he started on the right wrist. Slowly, slowy, with agonizing sloth the knife cut through nylon and liberated his right hand.

 

The moment Jason felt both his hands free he leapt from the chair and threw Mustang to the ground. The Serpent let out a cry of surprise, but then Jason kicked him in the stomach hard. And then again, and again, and again. Jason had some four or five inches on the biker, but no fighting experience. He wasn’t going to risk a fair confrontation. Especially not when the other man was armed with a knife His foot connected with Mustang’s body again and again, first his stomach, then his chest. Each strike was powered by a cocktail of rage, terror, and sheer exhilaration. He’d almost been _murdered_ , and though his father had gone, this man was still here. This man could still bear the brunt of his wrath.

 

When Mustang finally coughed up a few specks of blood, Jason stopped his assault. The serpent lay there, sputtering and groaning, his breaths coming as tortured rasps, and Jason felt a dark satisfaction. He knelt down next to the brutalized man and plucked the switchblade from his hand, only to be knocked back by a wave of pain as the adrenaline of his assault wore off and the wound in his side made itself known. He was afraid to check just how bad it was. But anyway, he could do that later. When he was out of this viper’s nest.

 

Jason stripped off his crisp, white shirt, now stained dark red, and tossed it aside. He pulled Mustang’s serpent jacket from his back, as the man writhed in protest, before slipping it on himself. The rage in his chest returned, dulling the pain in his side. He imagined himself slashing Mustang’s throat with his own knife. Kicking him until his organs were ground to pulp.

 

No. _No._ There were more important things.

 

He exited the basement, locking the door behind him. But he was far from in the clear. Between him and the doors that led to the chilly Riverdale night and freedom was a bar full of drunk, violent criminals. He bowed his head, and hoped to God all their alcohol-addled minds would see as he passed through their midst was the snake on his jacket.

 

* * *

 

 

Cheryl Blossom sat alone in her room in the dark halls of Thornhill. On the wall, an old clock ticked silently towards midnight. She pulled her knees to her chest, unsure what the right emotion for the moment was.

 

Of course she had to play the grieving sister in public, but Jason wasn’t _really_ dead, she knew that. And yet…he was supposed to call her. Soon. It had been days. _Weeks_. She looked to her phone, sitting on the folds of her comforter an inch from her left foot. Cheryl pleaded with it silently, praying for a call. Praying for the vibration and the ring and the words ‘unknown caller’, because of course he would be calling her from an anonymous number.

 

Lately, she had begun to feel afraid. Of what, she was not entirely sure. More than once the awful thought had entered her head that perhaps he had lied. Perhaps he was not really going to call her. Perhaps he was already far, far from Riverdale and settling into his new life, one that didn’t include her. The thought sickened her almost as much as that of him being hurt or worse. This was the longest she had ever been without Jason by her side, since they were conceived and spent those nine months in the womb together. It felt like having something integral torn away, as much as if someone had cut out a piece of her flesh. She needed to see him, to see his red curls and brown eyes and alabaster skin that matched her own, or to hear his voice or his laugh. Thornhill without him was alien and hostile. He had stood between her and the cruel attentions of their parents, protecting her from father’s admonitions or mother’s vicious outbursts. As long as he was there, she could survive it, she could almost forget that she was the unfavorite. The runt. And now he was gone, and there was nothing to temper their abuse.

 

_You have to come back…please._

Cheryl heard the front door open and knew her father had returned. Her father, Cliff Blossom. Maple syrup mogul, family patriarch, cold and stiff-backed as ever. Even Jason’s ‘death’ had not brought any newfound warmth from him or mother. Cheryl knew her brother was alive, but her parents did not, and yet they rarely deigned to offer their daughter so much as a word of comfort, focusing only on how his death might affect them or the business.

 

Then, through the depths of her dark reverie, cut the ringing of her phone. Cheryl dived for it, feverishly swiping the screen and nearly fainting when she saw the words ‘unknown number’. She swiped again, and put the phone to her ear.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Cher? Cher, thank God.”

 

“JayJay!”

 

A wave of relief washed over her as Jason’s voice met her ears once more. She felt giddy. It was all she could do not to begin hopping on her mattress in celebration. But all of that was quickly washed away by the fear and dread woven through his next words.

 

“Cher, oh God, you need to help me, please.”

 

“Jason? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 

“No, I’m-look, Cheryl, you have to meet me. Now, okay? Right now?”

 

His voice quavered, as if he was on the verge of sobbing or groaning. A sharp needle of fear jabbed into Cheryl’s stomach.

 

“Of course” she said, already leaping from her bed and groping at her night table for her car keys. “Where?”

 

“You know the payphone, by the old theater? The drive in?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“There. Now. Hurry, please.”

 

Cheryl flew down the stairs, through the foyer and around the back of the house, taking a shortcut into the Blossom family’s massive garage through one of Thornhill’s many dining rooms. In a few moments she was in her car, stepping on the gas and backing out of the gargantuan driveway. She’d made no attempt at subtlety. Her parents would soon notice that she was gone. But it didn’t matter. She needed to be there. Now.

 

* * *

 

 

Jason finished his call and his knees went weak. He cling to the payphone’s hood for support. The wound couldn’t be _that_ bad, he reasoned. After all, he’d beaten up a biker (sort of), escaped the Whyte Wyrm, and gotten all the way to the phone with it. It was probably mostly the pain, moreso than any real damage. The shock of being _shot_. Or at least, he hoped so.

 

And more than that, he hoped Cheryl would get here soon. He was filled with a sudden sense of dread. What if their father had overheard the phone call? She hadn’t exactly sounded quiet. The thought of his sister in the same house as that monster made his skin crawl. What if-

 

He knocked his head against the payphone, as if he could force intrusive thoughts out like that. Jason looked around. The lights in the old theater were extinguished, as were half the streetlights lining this otherwise empty stretch of road. It was, in a word, deserted. And he was grateful. If there were no people, than there were no Serpents. Jason’s emotions vacillated wildly between rage, fear, sadness, guilt, and concern. He wasn’t sure if it was a result of the wound and the pain, or simply the impossibility of this whole situation, and then shortly decided it was probably both. He felt the blood soak through to the leather jacket he’d stolen. He wondered what the Serpents would do. Would they call his father? Would they come after him?

 

Way down the road, near a bank of trees, he finally saw the phantom glow of a pair of headlights. Jason steadied himself, still clutching Mustang’s switchblade, though he doubted that in this state he could put up much of a fight. The car came closer and closer and Jason almost wept in relief when he recognized the color and shape of his sister’s white Bentley. The car skidded to a halt in front of Jason and Cheryl jumped out, her eyes going wide as eggs when she caught sight of him. In different circumstances, he might have laughed when he realized she was still wearing heels. He secreted away Mustang’s knife.

 

Cheryl came to his side. She noticed the hideous bloodstain staining his side. She put a hand to her mouth to suppress a cry of horror.

 

“Jason _oh my God! What happened?”_

“I was shot.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“It’s-I think I’m okay. Well, I haven’t bled out yet.” He tried to force a weak smile, but it failed to materialize.

 

“I need to get you to a hospital.” Her voice began to tremble and he could see tears welling up in her eyes. Despite his own situation, he felt the instinctive need to comfort her. He was perfectly capable of walking in spite of the pain, but he allowed her to put his arm around her shoulder and help him to the car.

 

“Cheryl-I’m okay, I’m gonna be fine I promise. But listen-you can’t take me to the hospital?”

 

“ _What?_ Jason-look at you! You need help right now!”

 

“No! Look, it’s not safe, okay?”

 

His stomach began to turn. God, he didn’t want to tell her what he knew he had to. The sight of him like this was more than enough trauma for one night. But he had little choice.

 

“What? Not safe? Jason are you joking? _You’re dying!_ I need to call mommy and dad-“

 

“No!”

 

“What?”

 

“Cheryl, I need you to believe me.” He winced, pulling the passenger side door shut and straining a muscle near his wound in the process. He looked into her deep brown eyes, so much like his own blue ones, filled with pain and tears. Jason stretched out a hand to her. She took it, their fingers lacing together. It felt familiar, safe. Some of the terror went out of their bodies. “Our father is the one who did this to me.” Jason finally said. He braced for her reaction. Cheryl just stared, uncomprehending.

 

“What? No-JayJay, you’re hurt. You’re not thinking straight right now.” She gingerly reached out a hand to touch his face. “Come on, let me take you to the hospital an-“

 

“No! God, he pointed a gun at me. He looked me in the eyes and pulled the trigger!”

 

Cheryl shook her head.

 

“Why…why would he do that?”

 

“It’s…it’s so much. Look, Cher, was he at home today? Was he home when you left, now?”

 

“Yeah…yeah he’d just gotten back b-“

 

“Shit!” Jason banged his fist against the dashboard.

 

“Jason…” she was truly crying now, her beautiful face contorted with pain. Seeing it drew fresh tears from Jason. “Please. Please let me take you to the hospital. You’re bleeding so much.”

 

“Dad owns this town. You know that. He’ll try to finish this. And if you help me, he might…” his voice trailed off.

 

“Then…what do we do?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

 

Neither noticed the dark figure approaching them from the great hulking shadow of the drive in theater. It crept slowly across the lot, avoiding streetlights, drawing ever closer to Cheryl’s parked car. Not until it was within striking distance of the open window did the twins sense a third presence.

 

“ _Jason Blossom?”_

 

Both Blossom twins cried out in shock. It took a moment to recognize the dark-haired, sullen face of Jughead Jones.

 

“Jughead?” Cheryl asked.

 

“Well this is quite the twist! Boy, the tow-“ the smile fell from Jughead’s face as he caught sight of the great red stain on Jason’s shirt. “What _happened_ to you?”

 

“I-“

 

“He was shot!” Cheryl explained, her voice anguished. “Please help us.”

 

“Well…get him to a hospital!” Jughead yelled.

 

“We can’t.” Jason growled.

 

“Wh-“

 

“We _can’t!_ ”

 

“Well…oh my God…this is…” Jughead’s eyes were wide. Cheryl could not tell if it was with fear or excitement. They seemed equally likely.

 

“We need to get out of here.” Jason said.

 

“Why? Is someone…”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is dad…is he going to send anyone…” Cheryl asked, afraid to finish her sentences, as if completing the statements might force them into reality. Jughead looked around, his stupid hat adding an air of the absurd to the drama.

 

“Look. If you won’t go to the hospital, come inside the theater. Now. Come on.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _What?_ ” Cliff Blossom roared, his face a mask of fury. He would never admit it, never, but this was his fault. He hadn’t made sure. He’d fired the gun and then stormed off. He hadn’t checked. And now Jason was alive. And he was _out there_. Free. And now everything was going to fall to pieces. The Serpent on the other end of the line began to offer excuses. Cliff wasn’t interested. He hit the red button. Hung-up.

 

Perhaps it would be okay. Jason was wounded. Cliff had seen blood, he was sure of that. He couldn’t get far.

 

Unless….

 

 _Cheryl_.

 

She’d left the house so quickly. Without a word. After, of course, a phone call. A loud phone call, yet short and discreet. Who was the first person his fool of a son would call in an emergency? Long before his parents or even the authorities? Cheryl, of course. Cliff closed his eyes. He gave himself a moment to think. Where would Jason have called from? Not his own cell, of course. Unlikely he’d borrowed anyone else’s. There were only a few payphones in town. Maybe Ten. Twelve. Yes. There was still time to fix this.

 

* * *

 

 

Jughead led the twins up to the projection room that doubled as his living quarters lately, the whole time wondering if he hadn’t stepped into a trashy mystery novel. You had the creepy rich twins, one of whom had recently died, only for it to be revealed that he’d faked his own death. And yet, now someone was trying to kill him for _real_. Bad fiction.

 

“Jughead…what are you doing here?” Cheryl asked.

 

“I live here.” He answered, voice grim and even.

 

“…Oh.”

 

He let Jason rest on the pile of blankets and pillows that served as his bed, too late realizing that he would have to clean all of the blood out later. Cheryl knelt next to him, laying his head gently down onto a pillow.

 

“Jason, let me look at it.”

 

“No. Cheryl, I’m fine.”

 

“JayJay, I’m not asking. Let me look.”

 

Now _this_ would be an interesting part of his novel. Cheryl gently removed, first the Southside Serpent jacket (which Jason was, for some reason, wearing), and then peeled back his undershirt. The wound was ugly, but not grievous. The skin just below his ribcage was lacerated badly. Bleeding had thankfully begun to slow. A few strips of exterior flesh hung from the injury. Cheryl visibly gagged and recoiled.

 

“How is it?” Jason asked.

 

“I don’t think it’s that bad.” Jughead cut in, before Cheryl could answer. “I doubt anything important was hit. I’m not an expert but…could have been a lot worse.”

 

Cheryl shot him a withering glare.

 

“We still need to get him to a hospital.”

 

Jughead put up his hands. “Absolutely. No argument here.” He slunk away, leaving the twins to themselves, and watching from the far side of the room. Cheryl refocused all of her attention onto her brother.

 

“Oh, Jason. How did this happen to you?”

 

And in a voice that trembled, Jason told her-and by extension, Jughead Jones-everything.

 

How his father had revealed to him the ‘secret’ of the family business. That narcotics and not maple syrup, were the foundation of his empire. How Cliff had tried to groom him into a successor, tried to explain the finer points of operating a criminal enterprise. How he’d rejected it, disgusted. Threatened to go public. How Clifford had feigned acceptance of his son’s denial, and then proceeded to hire a gang of thugs to kidnap him and hold him in the dark, dingy basement of a bar. How Cliff himself had come with a fully loaded revolver, and but for raw luck and an unsteady hand, would have killed him then and there.

 

By the time Jason’s story was finished. Cheryl was crying again. She cradled Jason’s head; even if he’d wanted to, he was too weak to resist.

 

“Jason…oh God, I’m so sorry. It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

 

Jason took his sister’s hand in his again, in a bizarre reversal determined to reassure _her_. The boy smiled.

 

“Of course I am. I’ve got you.”

 

“Always.” Cheryl replied.

 

Jughead watched in silence.

 

_Maybe not a mystery novel. Maybe really creepy romance._

He stood and went to the window, staring out onto the empty drive-in lot and the street beyond. If someone was after Jason Blossom…well he certainly didn’t want them coming here. But of course, he couldn’t well kick the two out. He had never exactly _liked_ Jason (not that he’d liked most people at Riverdale High), but he wasn’t going to let the town’s golden boy bleed to death on his watch. He picked up a clump of rags he used to clean the projector and reels. Tearing a thick strip of cotton away, he offered to Cheryl, who whispered her thanks and pressed it to Jason’s wound. He winced, but held back further tears.

 

Jughead backed off and licked his increasingly chapped lips. He returned to the window.

 

* * *

 

 

Cliff Blossom cruised through Riverdale’s darkened streets. He held the wheel with a white-knuckle grip, every so often cursing quietly. He hadn’t bothered to call the Serpents. Even if there had been time, they’d shown just how useless they were. He should have hired professionals. Should have shot his upstart prick of a son in the head. Should have-no. No, it didn’t matter now. What was done was done. All that was left to rectify his mistake. He let his hand fall to the revolver on the passenger seat. The lacquered wood and cold metal gave him a sense of comfort. It would be okay.

 

He knew they wouldn’t go to the police. He’d never held his children’s intelligence in much esteem, but they weren’t dumb enough to do that. The department answered to _him_ above all else. Yes, he’d put a bullet in Jason’s head. If he had to snuff out Cheryl too, then so be it. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but he gladly would if he was forced to it. There was no shortage of driven, sharp-witted young men who would leap at the chance to inherit his crown when his time was done. Everything would be fine.

 

Cliff had seen no sign of them near Pop’s, nor near the school. Fear and frustration built up within him, despite his best efforts to control his emotions and remain calm. He took a sharp turn on the wide, deserted thoroughfare that would take him by the theater and past Riverdale’s third payphone.

 

He saw that the phone hung from its cord, dangling in the evening breeze.

 

His grim face lifted into a smile.

 

* * *

 

 

“Promise me you’ll never leave again.” Cheryl asked. Her dark brown eyes and ruby red lips glistened in the dim light of the projection room. Jason squeezed his sister’s hand. He felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He had had no right to drag her into this ridiculous scheme. To run away, to find a home far away from Riverdale with Polly. He couldn’t escape that easily. His father’s reach had few limits. No. He would stay here. Whatever he’d done, whatever he had to take responsibility for, he would do it here. He would not abandon anyone.

 

“Never. I promise you, Cher.”

 

She rested her head against Jason’s chest. He felt tears soak through the cotton of his shirt, mingling with the drying black blood. It was too difficult to see her like this. And of course, it was all his fault. His idiocy.

 

“I missed you so much JayJay.”

 

And with that, Jason realized just how much he’d missed her too. He wrapped an arm around Cheryl’s back and held her. The fear he’d felt in the hands of the serpents, locked away in dank basement, awaiting his own death was hardly anything compared to the fear he’d felt that he would never see his sister again. That they would never go for another boat ride-a _real_ boat ride. Never walk through the woods with her again, alone, just the two of them and the birds and the bowed trees.

 

That was why he would not die here. Because that would mean leaving her. Because that would be treason against the person he loved more than anyone or anything on earth.

 

“Hey…hey you two!” Jones’ voice snapped out of his cloudy thoughts. “There’s someone here.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cliff Blossom was a hunter by nature. He’d made use of that instinct. He could track a deer through endless tracks of thick woods, catching signs that anyone else would miss. He could face down a towering grizzly without a hint of fear and fire a bullet through its skull. He would find his quarry wherever fled, and he would end its life without remorse, without compunction. He possessed all of the qualities that made a great hunter; determination, ruthlessness, and attentiveness.

 

Today, he wore an Armani blazer and loafers rather than camouflage and boots, but he was hunting just the same. From the used payphone, following the drops of blood, though they were almost invisible in the dark, was easy. There were footprints in the dust, too. One pair that must have been Jason’s. Another, smaller. His daughter’s. A third. Unidentified. That complicated things. They were smaller than Jason’s but larger than Cheryl’s. From the pattern on the shoe, he surmised it was a male, though one slighter and shorter than his son. That was just fine. He had enough bullets for them all. Cliff crept towards the theater. First he went for the front doors to the building, but his hand froze before the handles. His children were dull, but they weren’t _that_ dull. He stepped back and stalked around the corner of the building. Towards the back, he found a set of rickety stairs spiraling up towards what looked like a secondary employee’s entrance.

 

The door was locked, but the lock was rusty and old. He was getting on in years, but he was still strong. He kicked it in. They’d probably hear it. That was fine. They wouldn’t get away. The only concerning variable was this mystery person. They likely wouldn’t be any more formidable than his children, but there was always that uncertainty. He shook it off. The door swung open loosely, its broken lock dangling. Cliff stepped into a dark, cob-webbed hallway.

 

A few doors down the hallway, one room stood half-open, dim yellow light spilling into the corridor. He shook his head and almost chuckled. Had he been pursuing something or someone he considered worthy prey Cliff would have suspected a trap, it was so obvious. But these were hardly soldiers or even wild beasts. They were stupid, scared teenagers.

 

Cliff bared his teeth, double-checked that the cylinder in his revolver was loaded, and started forward.

 

This was it.

 

* * *

 

 

When Jughead informed them, not bothering to disguise the fear in his voice, that someone was here, Jason pulled himself to his feet. Cheryl crouched at his side, breathing quietly.

 

“I’m gonna check it out.” Jughead said, before sprinting out of the room and down the hall.

 

“Jones! Jones!” Cheryl snapped and received no response. Had the little coward just ditched them?

 

She hooked an arm around her brother’s waist, offering the wounded boy support as he stood. They faced the open door. Neither was quite brave enough to step forward and close it. The light would glow in the hall like a beacon, summoning their pursuer and bringing their deaths.

 

Jason swore under his breath. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks again. Hand trembling, he drew Mustang’s knife from his pocket and hit the switch, unsheathing the blade.

 

“I’m scared.” Cheryl breathed. He embraced her.

 

“Me too.”

 

There was a loud crash that Cheryl recognized as a door being kicked open. Then, footsteps in the hallway.

 

Finally, the nightmare shape of their father materialized in the doorway, framed by the darkness of the hallway, tall and terrible. The revolver in his hand glistened wickedly.

 

“Found you” he sneered, stalking forward. Before either of his children could react, he grabbed Cheryl by the hair and yanked her away from her brother.

 

“No!” she shrieked.

 

Suddenly deprived of support, Jason stumbled and tripped, falling to his knees.

 

“Let her go! Let her go or I’ll fucking kill you!” he roared. His father laughed. It was more of a bark, dry and cruel.

 

“With what?” he gestured to the knife in Jason’s hand. “That little needle? You think you’re so brave? So smart?” Cliff leveled the revolver at Jason for the second time in a night.

 

“Please…” Cheryl begged. “Please don’t hurt him.” Cliff released her hair, throwing her to the ground hard. She struck the floor and then looked up at it, eyes red with grief. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” he snapped at her. “I’ve known since you were children. You’re both useless. Weak.” He shook his head, disgusted. “What I wouldn’t give for two sons. Two _men_. Not a pathetic pansy and his slut sister.”

 

“You shut your mouth.” Cheryl growled. Her begging ceased. The grief in her eyes vanished, replaced with rage.

 

“You think you’re in a position to threaten me?”

 

“You don’t know what we would have given for a _real_ father? Anything!” She shouted. Cliff’s face darkened. He turned the gun on her instead. Jason stepped forward, only to stop in mid-stride as Cliff refocused the weapon on him again.

 

“Don’t worry. There are six bullets in this gun. Three each.” His eyes glowed in the light of the one dim bulb. “Except…there’s someone else here with you, isn’t there?”

 

“No!” Cheryl lied.

 

“Don’t lie to your father. Who else is here? And where is h-“

 

Cliff was cut short mid sentence as something heavy and dark struck him in the back of the head. He stumbled forward. His finger slipped, and the revolver discharged, a single round exploding from the gun and burying itself in the plaster wall.

 

From the darkness of the hallway, Jughead strode into the light, carrying an armful of film reels. Cliff whirled around. Jughead hurled _The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms_ at him. It struck him in the face just as he fired. The bullet struck Jughead in the thigh. He gasped and fell forward, the films cascading from his arms. Cliff brought his free hand to his nose and wiped away a drop of blood. The shock was replaced with rage. He leveled the gun at Jughead, who crumpled to the floor, whimpering in pain and clutching his wounded leg. .

 

“You stupid little prick.”

 

He fired again. This time the bullet caught Jughead in the chest. He cried out again. Tears sprang from his eyes. Cliff prepared to finish him off-and then he howled in pain as Jason pounced from behind and drove the switchblade deep into his father’s gut. Cliff threw his son off, sending him sprawling across the room. The gun slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. He brought a hand to the stab-wound in his side.

 

He reached down to pick up his weapon. He hardly noticed Cheryl approaching from his left. She kicked him in the leg, hard, her heel driving into the soft flesh of his thigh. He screamed again and sank to the floor. His daughter’s hand darted out and snatched up the revolver. Cliff made a feeble grasp for it but instead only fell forward, collapsing onto his stomach. He slowly drew himself to his knees again, gasping in pain.

 

Cheryl trained the gun onto her father.

 

Cliff stared into her eyes. He put up his hands, as if in surrender.

 

“Chery-“

 

She fired. The bullet bored into her father’s chest. His scream was silent as the round collapsed his lung. She fired again, face a mask of fury. This time his throat burst open, blood cascading down the front of his priceless Armani blazer.

 

Cheryl pulled the trigger once more. The shot struck her father directly between his eyes. A spurt of blood painted her knees. Clifford Blossom’s eyes went wide and then rolled back into his head. He crumpled to the ground. Very, very dead.

 

She heard laughter, punctuated by brutal sobs. Whether it was herself, Jason, or Jughead, she could not say.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the night was an indistinct blur. The police lights, the questions, the ambulances, the blood. So, so much blood. More blood than Cheryl ever thought was possible.

 

She would forever hold the images of Jason and Jughead strapped down into gurneys and hurried to the hospital in her head. She could hardly answer anything the police asked her. She downed more than five cups of coffee that night, but half of each spilled, for her hands shook so violently.  

 

The last thing she remembered was everything beginning to dim, before the collapsed into the waiting arms of a policeman.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey. Wake up. We’re here.”

 

Cheryl started. He eyes flew open and her dream suddenly melted away. It took her a moment to collect herself and take stock of her surroundings. She wasn’t in a morgue. Jason wasn’t lying on a slab before her, his flesh gray and rotting, a bullet between his dead eyes. He was in the car next to her, very much alive, a hand on her shoulder, face knotted with concern.

 

“Jason!” she smiled. He frowned, thrown by her violent awakening.

 

“You okay?”

 

“More bad dreams. I’m alright.”

 

She leaned over and hugged him. He planted a kiss on top of her head. They both slid from the car. Riverdale General Hospital loomed over them. She stretched out a hand, and Jason gladly took it. He smiled at her. Cheryl’s heart quickened and she felt that there was nothing wrong in the world, and that she could do anything. They headed for the doors.

 

The secretary was a bit difficult. They haggled with her for some ten minutes, before she finally relented. The Blossom name still carried weight despite the scandal of the past two weeks, and their intended visitee wasn’t in critical condition any more.

 

The twins stepped into Jughead’s hospital room, treading lightly as if heavy footsteps might reopen his wounds. When he saw them his eyes flashed. He made no move to sit up in his bed. His face was set, betraying no emotions. Cheryl wasn’t certain if he was upset or happy to see them. Or neither.

 

“Hey Jughead.” She said, her voice quiet.

 

“Hey Jones.” Jason echoed.

 

Finally, Jughead’s stoney mask split into a grin. “Well look at that. It’s the wonder twins.”

 

Jason chuckled. Cheryl smiled.

 

“How are you doing?” she asked, in a voice heavy with real concern.

 

“Well, the doctors say the bullet missed my heart by half an inch. And I get to keep my arm. I guess I have to start believing in miracles now.”

 

“I’m glad to hear.” Jason said.

 

“Listen” Cheryl started. “Oh, whatever. You know why we’re here. We want to thank you, obviously. For…you know, everything. Only reason we’re both alive…I know we haven’t always been on the best terms but…”

 

“It’s fine. Really.” Then the boy’s eyes went wide. “Oh God, we’re not going to hug are we?”

 

Cheryl said nothing for a moment. She turned to look to her brother. Then she smiled a mischievous grin.

 

“Actually, I think we are.”

 

“No, no, n-“

 

Despite his protests, she bent down and embraced him, gingerly as she could. Hesitantly, face screaming that he wanted to be anywhere but here, he returned the hug with his good arm. After an eternity, she broke the embrace and stepped back.

 

“Hey” Jason said. “This is gonna sound a bit weird, but I’m sorry for all of the school shooter jokes freshman year.”

 

“I’m sorry for calling you a self-obsessed, obnoxious pretty boy dickhead.”

 

Jason’s face evinced real confusion.

 

“You did?”

 

“Well...not to your face.”

 

“Look.” Cheryl said. “Despite what people say, we all know verbal thanks isn’t near enough.” She set down her purse on Jughead’s nightstand. Then she drew out a slip of paper that he immediately recognized as a check. “Sixty thousand dollars. And if you or your family ever need more, for whatever reason, don’t hesitate to let us know. Okay?”

 

He looked speechless. He stared at the check as if it might bite him. Jughead’s mouth opened once or twice, but each time the words died in his throat.

 

“I…for real?”

 

“Isn’t this the part where you say ‘I can’t take your money’?” Jason asked. There was a moment of silence. Jughead’s face fell. “Uh…I’m joking.”

 

“ _Sixty_ thousand?” Jughead asked. “You don’t mean Six?”

 

“No. Twenty.” Cheryl assured him.

 

“I’ve never actually seen this much money…”

 

“Look, we know you’re not the emotional type.” Jason said. “But one more thing.” He reached inside his jacket and extracted a small package hastily bound in gift wrap. Jason handed it to Cheryl, who handed it to Jughead. “Anyway, get better.” Cheryl took him gently by the wrist.

 

“Come on Jason.”

 

“Bye Jughead.”

 

And they were gone.

 

On the way out, the twins passed the receptionist’s desk again. This time, she was in the middle of a heated argument with Archie Andrews, Kevin Keller, Betty Cooper, and a pretty, raven-haired girl neither recognized.

 

“Let them in!” Cheryl said.

 

The receptionist rolled her eyes and waved the group in.

 

As Jason and Cheryl left the hospital, they heard Jughead’s voice, clearly audible even at a distance.

 

“Cheryl Blossom just hugged me and gave me sixty thousand dollars!”

 

“Oh my god!” Came Betty Cooper’s voice. “Are you okay?”

 

She sounded so legitimately worried that Cheryl smiled. She took Jason’s hand, and the two stepped out into a chilly Riverdale morning. Together.

 

* * *

 

 

With Archie making up for his injured arm, Jughead tore the wrapping away from his gift.

 

“What is it?” The girl apparently named Veronica Lodge asked.

 

The stark black lettering jumped out at him from the book’s cover: _In Cold Blood_ over the name ‘Truman Capote’.

 

“Cool.” Kevin said. “Don’t you already have that one though? Like, isn’t that the first book any true crime buff buys?”

 

“Yeah.” Jughead conceded. “But this one’s a first edition.” He cracked open the old book to its first page, and was gloriously struck by the messy signature scrawled there. “And it’s signed.”

 

He smiled, and his friends did, too.


End file.
